


bird in the hand

by novembersmith



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Also Bird Calls, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artistic metaphors, Established Relationship, F/F, Fisting, Lady Les Amis, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, R-TISTIC IF YOU WILL, Rule 63, Self Confidence Issues, Seriously Many Orgasms Are Had, Vaginal Fisting, obviously, terrible puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4164474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersmith/pseuds/novembersmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This whole conversation had started in the midst of foreplay, both of them down to boxers and bikini briefs. Grantaire had been teasing Enjolras, trying to get her to talk dirty – it’d be a useless cause, except that Enjolras’s dry, slightly quizzical delivery does it for Grantaire <i>every time</i>. She’s pathetically gone on this girl. Also, every now and then, something extraordinarily hot slips out. Hot, or hilarious, or confusing, or an insane mix of all of the above. </p><p>Like, ‘I want your hand in me.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	bird in the hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [torakowalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/gifts).



> HAPPY BELATED B-DAY, TORA!! Have some celebratory filthy fluff. :D?
> 
> EXTREME LEVELS OF GRATITUDE to mooging and laliandra for all of the reassurance and hand-holding (HA HA) and to star betas regonym and formerlydf for all their help and feedback and general wonderfulness. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.

Grantaire really should have anticipated this, but in fairness, she still can’t quite believe that this – that they – are happening at all.

But she knows Enjolras has a thing for her hands, for some reason – Grantaire’s obnoxiously large hands, knobby and too big for her body, stained from years of paint and cigarettes, calloused rough from guitar strings. Grantaire doesn’t understand the appeal, herself. She supposes she likes what she can occasionally make them do – they’re good for something with a paintbrush or a camera in them, or taped in the ring, or in between Enjolras’s gorgeous, gorgeous thighs. But in and of themselves, they’re garish, clownish, uncouth – aka, completely in keeping with the rest of her, to be perfectly fucking honest.

But Enjolras has, multiple times, faltered to a halt in the middle of one of their arguments, staring at them as Grantaire gesticulated, then gone red and changed the subject. It’d taken a while for Grantaire to realize that was Enjolras _actually losing her train of thought_ , much to the amusement of the other Amis. And it had lead on numerous occasions to a bemused and delighted Grantaire being dragged off to the backroom by a flushed and scowling Enjolras, who would immediately shove Grantaire’s hands up her shirt or down her trousers as soon as they were at least somewhat out of sight.

Over breakfast Enjolras presses idle kisses to Grantaire’s fingertips, like a rose petal falling on sandpaper. She asks, begs for fingers in her when they’re in bed, drags them where she wants them and presses up into Grantaire’s palms like a cat. Despite the slightly awkward height difference between them, she gets grumpy and cross if Grantaire won’t hold hands with her while they walk together, and before a match, she’s started demanding she be the one who carefully tapes Grantaire’s fingers, just like Bahorel taught her.

On one memorable occasion, they’d both been working on projects in Grantaire’s studio, Enjolras adorable with her laptop and black-rimmed glasses, frowning at the screen and clattering away at the keys. She’d been sitting in a patch of sunlight, red cardigan as warm as a flame and her hair a bright tousle of messy curls, and Grantaire couldn’t help but paint her.

After a while, she’d realized the sound of intense typing had tapered off, and looked up to see Enjolras staring, her eyes dark and red mouth parted.

“Can you take a break?” she rasped. When, nonplussed, Grantaire blinked and nodded, Enjolras had short-circuited her brain by stripping clothing as she’d stalked over and commanded, “Put your hands on me. _Touch me_.” And what could a humble artist do but oblige, when a canvas begged to be painted?

Grantaire had taken a picture after, forever regretful she’d only had her camera phone to capture it, but it’s still her favorite photograph she’s ever taken: Enjolras naked in a patch of sunlight, with Grantaire’s handprints all over her, brilliant scarlets and marigolds and buttery yellows, watching Grantaire lazily from beneath her lashes and looking supremely, gloriously pleased with herself.

So, Grantaire is at least aware that Enjolras has a thing for her hands. And it’s not like she minds – fucking far from it, her hands are actually pretty sensitive, for how banged up they are. They have to be, to be delicate enough for detail work. Enjolras lavishing her fingers with her resplendent, talented tongue and putting her pretty pink nipples in Grantaire’s waiting palms is hardly a hardship.

But this – this still surprises her.

“I think I’d like it, but fisting’s a lot of work for anyone, and it’d be more with me,” Enjolras is saying carefully, uncomfortably, and god, oh no, it’s this again. “I could make it up to you, though.”

“You don’t have to _make anything up to me ever_ , god _dammit_ ,” Grantaire moans into her hands, then rolls off the bed to properly display the depth of her despair that they’re having this argument once more. She jabs a finger up when Enjolras pokes her golden head over the edge to peer at her. “So help me, if you apologize _one more time_ —”

“I just—”

“Just please, tell me one day you’ll believe me that I don’t care that you take longer to come,” Grantaire said exasperatedly, and waves her hands in the air. “ _Everyone_ takes longer than me, I’m ridiculously easy, it’s a problem.” The number of times she’s scandalized Marie by letting out a shuddery moan while a smirking Enjolras barely rubs at her under the table is getting sort of out of hand, honestly.

“That is not a problem,” Enjolras says, getting that intent look in her eyes, the one that makes Grantaire instinctively press her thighs together, belly clenching. “At all.”

“Well, neither are you! It’s not the fucking number of orgasms per minute of effort that matters – and I know you’re still keeping track, _I know you are_ —” Enjolras looks both sheepish and cross at this, the total lunatic. “—not all orgasms are created equal. I know you get wet for equality, babe, but this is not the place. Oh my god.”

Grantaire lunges up and slaps a hand over Enjolras’s mouth before the predictable protest can break out. She probably only gets away with it because Enjolras’s is letting her, due to the aforementioned fondness for the hand in question, but even that won’t stop her for long.

“I meant numerically, I _know_ we’re both equal in the bedroom and everywhere else, yadda yadda, don’t even start, you know that’s not what I meant. Making you come, yeah, it’s work, but I’m not doing you a fucking favor, _I love it_ , there’s nothing better than fucking you with my fingers or my tongue, you’re so pretty when you come, and you come _so good_ for me.”

Enjolras, beneath her hand, is slowly pinking up. “Hmmph,” she says, muffled.

“Fuck, beautiful, I’d do it all day if you’d just let me, but you keep banging on about class and socializing and the rights of man and all that shit,” she teases, then, somehow, it slips out. “And I mean, it’s not like you’re not doing me a favor when you eat _me_ out, right?”

She still can’t believe – it logically shouldn’t happen at all, but it does, regularly, Enjolras putting her perfect pink mouth on Grantaire’s body, licking her open with a tongue so much softer and sweeter than it sounds during meetings, delicately and precisely biting at her thighs and her stomach. “Again,” she’ll say, “I want another,” while Grantaire shakes beneath her, and puts her mouth back and makes it happen, like magic, Grantaire coming over and over. Until she can’t stand it any longer and has to flip Enjolras onto her back – for a feminist you sure love being manhandled, she loves to tease, which always, always produces an indignant response, like Enjolras just can’t help herself – and coaxes Enjolras into shuddering and opening up and finally coming on her fingers, beautiful, entire body bowed and her red wet mouth open and shocked.

Right now Enjolras’s eyes are wide and alarmed, and she knocks Grantaire’s hand away to hiss indignantly, “Of course not, don’t be fucking _ridiculous _.”__

It loosens something knotted and thorny in Grantaire’s chest, and she can’t help but lean in to drop a kiss on that outraged mouth.

“I believe that was the sound of me winning the argument, then,” she says.

“I suppose I take your point,” Enjolras concedes, which is almost but not quite as good as sex in and of itself. “Fine.”

“So, fisting, then,” Grantaire says, and clambers back on the bed, charmed by how Enjolras immediately goes adorably pink and looks over Grantaire’s shoulder at nothing. “I don’t know much about it, should we watch, I dunno, an instructional video?”

“I’ll tell you what to do,” Enjolras says, still looking a little flustered. “If you’re really sure you don’t mind—”

“Agghhhhhhhh,” Grantaire yells, giving up on patience, and tackles her to the bed, blowing raspberries that make Enjolras shriek – she hates the indignity of raspberries and motorboats both, but, well, her breasts are a bit perfect for it, and she’s never safeworded Grantaire into stopping, so the motorboating shall continue until morale improves. Or until Enjolras manages to brace herself enough to shove Grantaire off, which she does eventually, her pretty chest heaving.

“Seriously, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and puts her hands on her favorite pair of tits, shaking them a little for emphasis, and score, her girlfriend laughs despite herself. “It’s not like your vagina has a bear trap in it. I’ve investigated thoroughly. I’m not going to lose a hand. And I want to do it. You’re right, I think you’ll love it, which means I will love it. Fisting. Sounds totally hot. We’re doing this.”

“Fine, then,” Enjolras says, still a little snippy and haughty with it, but her shoulders have relaxed and she’s smiling. “Get the lube.”

Which, whatever, the lube is on her side of the bed, but Grantaire obligingly climbs over and roots around in their bedside table. “Don’t think I don’t know you aren’t taking the opportunity to ogle,” Grantaire says, looking over her shoulder, and is delighted when Enjolras shrugs in agreement, palming Grantaire’s ass, then pinching it.

“Hurry up.”

“Okay, okay, there,” Grantaire says, emerging triumphant with a couple of bottles, because even though Enjolras produces plenty of her own lubrication on the regular, overkill is probably the name of the day. “What next? Advise me, O sex guru.”

She gets what she expects: a thorough, brief list of dry instructions.

“Lots of lubrication throughout,” Enjolras recites. “When the vaginal walls are relaxed enough, go in with pinky and forefinger beneath the middle and ring fingers, then the thumb tucked beneath those. The knuckles are the most difficult part – once past those, your hand will naturally curl into a fist. Keep your thumb inside. Once I orgasm, don’t move; the contractions could sprain or dislocate your wrist.”

“Sexy, talk dirty to me more, babe, you know I like it,” Grantaire purrs, laughing, but then catches her breath when Enjolras, who had rattled off the facts with a straight face, borderline dispassionate, blushes.

“And I’ll need to be pretty aroused,” she says diffidently. “For this to work. It could take a while.”

“Yeah, I sort of figured that, darling,” Grantaire says, and manages to catch her eye. “Think I can manage it?” Think you can let me, she doesn’t ask, but it hangs unspoken between them.

“Yes,” Enjolras says simply, wetting her lips, and seems like she might be about to ask, again, if Grantaire is sure she wants to do this. But she stops herself, so Grantaire rewards her with the filthiest kiss she can manage, hand tipping her jaw back so she can tongue in deep and wet, pulling back just enough to make Enjolras chase after her, which is infinitely hot and delightful, again and again.

“Gonna get you so wet,” she promises between kisses, and at the tiny helpless ‘ah’ of sound Enjolras produces in response, Grantaire’s nipples throb. God. “Oh, beautiful, I’m going to _destroy_ you.”

“Please do,” Enjolras husks out, and yep. Yes, this is happening. Maybe, maybe part of Grantaire had been a little uncertain about the whole idea, because sometimes Enjolras can just be so tight and the idea of hurting her, actually hurting her, by accident and not by careful design, is horrifying on a soul-deep level. But over the course of the conversation she’s warmed to it to a degree that’s frankly almost overwhelming. The idea of taking Enjolras, _Enjolras_ apart enough, getting her hot enough and needy enough that this will work, that Grantaire can fit her entire hand inside her, of Enjolras letting her—yeah.

Yeah, she’s into it.

This whole conversation had started in the midst of foreplay, both of them down to boxers and bikini briefs. Grantaire had been teasing Enjolras, trying to get her to talk dirty – it’d be a useless cause, except that Enjolras’s dry, slightly quizzical delivery does it for Grantaire _every time_. She’s pathetically gone on this girl. Also, every now and then, something extraordinarily hot slips out. Hot, or hilarious, or confusing, or an insane mix of all of the above.

Like, ‘I want your hand in me.’

The delay where Grantaire had to say, wait, what? and coax Enjolras to explain and then the inevitable argument hadn’t ruined the mood, definitely not – really, arguments are basically foreplay for them – more set it on simmer.

And so now Grantaire can kiss down without delay, no need to remove clothes – she can mouth immediately at a nipple, take her time going slowly from delicate kisses to the same kind of open-mouthed press of tongue she’d just taken Enjolras’s mouth with. Enjolras would usually already be trying to flip their positions, but today she's actually letting Grantaire set the pace and Grantaire wants to wallow in it, in her.

“You know, your breasts are a masterpiece beyond mortal ken; Bernini himself would be jealous. No human could sculpt anything so fine,” she tells Enjolras idly, cupping the swell of one reverently and breathing over the wet, swollen nipple. She’s rewarded with a high breathy sigh, ambrosia to her ears. “God, I fucking love your tits.”

Enjolras replies, like she’s not light of breath and already rolling her hips in tiny, upwards movements, “I know.”

“What gave me away?” Grantaire gasps, half mocking and half actually out of breath herself – she defies anyone to be able to draw a full lungful with this woman beneath them, pliant and fox-eyed and mouth bitten red. She moves her mouth, open and adoring, down to the hard ridge of Enjolras’s sternum, across the thud of her heart, up the curve of her left breast. She tugs with her teeth only when Enjolras has started arching upwards into her mouth and twining her hand in Grantaire's hair.

Then, when both nipples are gorgeously tight and bitten a color pink that she’s dying to paint, she drapes herself over Enjolras, rubbing their chests together. Grantaire’s tits are already sensitive, are always sensitive, and now wet and overstimulated Enjolras is right there with her, mouth open in a silent oh as Grantaire rocks them against each other, heart to heart.

“I thought you were—going to—,” Enjolras says, and the loss of articulateness is definitely high on the list in terms of what Grantaire loves best about her in bed. But it’s a long list. “Grantaire. This isn’t fisting, you don’t have to—what are you—”

“So observant,” Grantaire asks, pressing their foreheads together. “Just taking my time. There’s no rush. You getting wet for me?”

“Maybe,” Enjolras admits, shuddering a little when Grantaire pinches a pearly nipple, then she pulls Grantaire in closer with one long leg wrapped around her and arches an eyebrow challengingly. “Come find out.”

Grantaire salutes with one hand and obediently sets to with the other; she likes taking her time, sure, but she can also take a hint.

Rubbing lightly over the front of her own lacy briefs (and how much does Grantaire love Enjolras stealing her underwear), something happens in Grantaire’s chest that is uncannily like that tired metaphor of a heart skipping a beat. But Enjolras is so damp already, and so hot it feels like there should be steam in the air.

Fuck.

She pushes down a little harder with her hand, making tiny circles over the lace, listening for that little whine Enjolras makes when she wants more – and there it is. Grantaire squeezes her own thighs together, feeling pretty steamy herself, and yeah, there’s a pulse, a flutter of orgasm tantalizingly close, when she slides her hand inside the panties to touch.

“Good girl,” she says thickly, and kisses her way over the cathedral curve of her ribs, worships the quickening breath in Enjolras’s lungs. Then she shimmies the tight wisp of fabric down Enjolras's shapely legs, and sits back, regarding the beauty splayed out before her. “Look at you, so wet already, god, babe. You really like this idea, huh?”

“I really like you,” Enjolras says simply, almost dismissive, like it should be obvious. “And I want this.” She sits up in one smooth movement, then shoves her hand in Grantaire’s boxers, kissing the surprised gasp out of her mouth.

“Ah,” Enjolras says into her mouth, smiling against her. She sounds so pleased. “I’m not the only one getting wet.”

“Of course not, look at you—oh, you fuck, oh fuck,” Grantaire chokes out, because her girlfriend is an evil genius. She can’t resist it, pushes against Enjolras’s hand, her strong insisting fingers, the perfect pressure of them. “You cheater, oh, _fuck_.”

“You’re so hot,” Enjolras says, and she means it, Grantaire can feel that on her fingers, slick and quivering. “Come on. Like that.”

“You dirty cheater,” Grantaire accuses when she catches her breath, taking a second to discard her own underwear before pushing a smug Enjolras back down. “It’s not my turn, we agreed.”

“I never said anything about turns,” Enjolras says archly, but shuts up when Grantaire easily slides a finger inside her, then crooks it. “ _Ah_.”

“It was unspoken but understood, and you know it,” Grantaire continues, and ponders her options. So many places she wants to put her mouth. She settles for inner thigh, downy and golden, and bites, sucking a bloom of color into being, smirking at the roll of hips this produces. “It’s my turn to have my wicked way with you, and your turn to lie back and take it like a woman.”

“Hmm, I suppose if I must,” Enjolras murmurs, eyelids low but eyes bright. “And you could say thank you.”

“Thank you for the orgasm, my dove,” Grantaire says, and puts her other hand on the silky soft plushness of Enjolras’s stomach. “It was, as ever, divine. Now, you. Stay there. Down, girl.”

It’s incredibly hot when Enjolras acquiesces, goes pliant and waiting on her back, arms over her head. “I’ll be good,” she says huskily, evilly, and Grantaire has to take a moment to make sure she’s not drooling or crossing her eyes or something.

“Another?” she asks, finally getting herself back together enough to remember her task.

“Mm? If want more, you could use my leg,” Enjolras offers, and why not, Grantaire wasn’t talking about that but she is totally down to straddle a perfect limb and rub off against it like an animal while she carefully takes her beautiful girl apart.

“Not what I meant,” Grantaire says, and slides her finger out, smiling at the protest before she presses the flat of her tongue to Enjolras, licks her from bottom to top, moaning happily, and waits for the faint, faint shiver of Enjolras’s thighs before sliding two fingers back in. “God, you taste so good, you’re fucking delicious.”

She sets up a quick, steady pace now, watching her fingers move in and out, pressing quick sweet kisses to Enjolras’s clit, tonguing her mound, rubbing her cheeks against her thighs. Enjolras, when she looks up, is flushed from her belly to her cheeks, a gorgeous rose, watching her with an open, parted mouth. This is all familiar, so far, but it never, ever gets old.

“You’ve got the prettiest pink cunt, I swear,” Grantaire says, and loves the way it makes the red on Enjolras’s cheeks deepen. She gets so wonderfully squirmy when Grantaire talks like this, like she wants more and can’t take it all at once. “Georgia O’Keefe would love it, it’s all petals and folds, mm, but a painting could never capture how good it feels on my fingers, or how good you _smell_ , the way you smell makes me want to eat you alive.” 

“R,” Enjolras whines, and rolls her hips up. Grantaire happily obliges, pushes her face down and loses herself for a moment, just hand movements and sucking and gasping for breath, and rolls her own hips until sparks fly behind her eyes and she can hear Enjolras panting.

And now the part that’s less familiar, the part that’s giving everything an extra edge, a shiver of anticipation. She usually sticks to two fingers, and as soon as Enjolras gets fully aroused, rosy and gleaming with it, she always demands more immediately, escalates the pace, harder and faster, until she comes slammed against Grantaire’s soaked palm, almost silent and open-mouthed, shaking like a leaf.

Not tonight. Tonight Enjolras is actually letting Grantaire take her time, asked her to take her time, and that’s almost more dizzying than the scent of her, thick in the air, the wet sound of her as Grantaire steadily works her open, scissors her fingers until Enjolras is dripping down her wrist and panting into her pillow.

“Three fingers now?” Grantaire asks roughly.

“Please,” Enjolras says, and then her hands are fists in the sheets. Grantaire knows she must be a mess, hair everywhere and face wet, gleaming, but Enjolras is looking at her like she’s – god, Grantaire doesn’t even know, she doesn’t know how to believe that it’s actually her Enjolras is looking at. “Ah, God, Grantaire. Like that, fuck.”

“Baby,” Grantaire says helplessly. “Look at you taking them, you’re so good for me.”

Three is a tight fit, but Enjolras is rolling her hips slowly onto Grantaire’s fingers, hands clenching and unclenching, and she’s already louder than she’s ever been before, her high breathy sounds deepening.

“More,” she demands, and scowls when Grantaire laughs and shakes her head. So much for patience.

“There’s no rush,” Grantaire tells her. “And I want to take my time. You’re a fine wine, baby.” She ignores the eyerolled complaint and settles in to see if she can work her tongue in, too. Then hears with delight the way Enjolras’s voice breaks, surprised, on her name. She actually has to hold Enjolras’s hips down with her other hand, hard enough that it makes her muscles flex, and she can feel how much Enjolras loves that, the way she gets wetter. Her tongue slips in besides the three fingers, and Grantaire could happily suffocate herself here, drown here, Enjolras shaking around her, but—

“Four?” she asks hoarsely, pulling back.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, controlled and polite, but her whole body is shivering. “And don’t stop unless I safeword. I want you to get me there. Please?”

“I’ll get you wherever you want,” Grantaire promises, and she will, she’ll take all night, but she won’t rush, she refuses to hurt her. She slides three fingers out, and smiles as Enjolras whines, clenching on emptiness. Lube, now, yeah – liberal lube is definitely called for from here on out.

“Four now, okay. Breathe for me, baby, relax.”

“Oh, oh god,” Enjolras says, her head falling back, and Grantaire’s heart is trying to thud its way out of her chest to reach her. “Jesus fuck.”

“You’re so beautiful, you’re so good, oh my god, look at you,” Grantaire babbles, and it’s so fucking insane, watching four of her fingers, down to her crooked knobby knuckles, move inside Enjolras. It’s blasphemous, divine. “What do you want now, how should I move? Talk to me, E.”

“Fuck me,” Enjolras says, shivering. “Ah, maybe – turn your hand a little? Oh, Grantaire, God, R, _God_.”

Grantaire moves her hand slowly at first, just in and out, and then turns her wrist just a bit and nearly dies when Enjolras moans, rich and low.

“I want to see,” she demands suddenly, and tries to sit up, her whole body shaking on Grantaire’s fingers. “Want to see your hand in me, I should have thought—before—oh, fuck, god god god, help me, get pillows? Shit.”

“So articulate,” Grantaire teases, but her tongue can barely get the words out, and it’s torture pulling her fingers free to pile up their pillows behind Enjolras, help prop her up enough to see the proceedings.

“Five now,” Enjolras demands, and she’s holding her own thighs open, a hand under each knee, and for a moment Grantaire is almost blinded by how filthy hot she is, curling sweat-damp hair and heaving breasts and imperious mouth and gorgeous slick pink cunt, open and waiting. Waiting for Grantaire.

“How,” she says idiotically, less a real question on the mechanics, which she technically understands, and more a question about the general nature of reality. 

Enjolras frowns, chest still heaving, and visibly forces herself to focus.

“Start off like a duck, come _on_ ,” she pants, and then, when Grantaire gawks incredulously and mouths, ‘A _what_ ’, continues impatiently, making the hand shape to demonstrate. “Like, like you’re making a shadow puppet. A duck. Then you curl it into a fist, thumb under like this. A—ah, a cranky duck. It's easy.” Enjolras lets go of a thigh to make the sign for her, arches an eyebrow and move her thumb like a beak, then says, dryly, like she’s not baring herself to Grantaire right now, like she’s not still shivering and dark-eyed: “Quack." 

“God, you’re perfect,” Grantaire says helplessly, and surges in to kiss her, rubbing at the whole of her wet waiting cunt with her hand. Not dipping in yet, just rubbing, loving the swollen slick softness of it, of her. “A _duck_ , I love you, you’re so fucking weird, I love it.”

She’s actually shocked when before she can do anything else but tease, spread the slickness around and toy with her clit, Enjolras bucks up into her hand, shudders all over and says, “Wait, oh, I’m going to—I don’t want to yet, god, _oh_ —”

She clutches Grantaire, hard enough Grantaire knows there will be perfect purple fingerprints on her biceps tomorrow, then slumps, panting.

“Babe,” Grantaire says, delighted, kissing the muzzy look on Enjolras’s face. “I didn’t know bird calls did it for you. Should I be quacking too? Clucking? I can gobble like a turkey, you have only to ask.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras slurs, rubbing her face against Grantaire’s neck, still shaking a little. “Dammit, I was trying to _wait_.”

What little is left of Grantaire’s brain melts a bit at the idea of Enjolras coming despite herself. She’s always felt like a sex wizard, a sex goddess, whenever Enjolras spills apart for her, but never as much as she does right now.

“Nope, this is good, it’s better this way,” she cooes, nuzzling smugly. “It’ll help you relax.”

“Mmph,” Enjolras says, then, “Yeah.” She’s clearly cross with herself, but also melting and pliant, the way she always gets after an orgasm, and it’s ridiculously adorable, and also hot. It makes Grantaire want to kiss her nose but also rub herself off on Enjolras’s thigh and come until she cries at the same time.

“Do you still want more? We can stop now, we don’t have to— _ow_ , you bitch, I’m delicate.”

“No,” Enjolras says, having bitten down on Grantaire’s collarbone. “You aren’t. And no stopping, you promised. Fingers, now. _Fuck_ me.”

“Pushy,” Grantaire teases happily, and obliges. Her three fingers slide in so easily now that it makes Grantaire’s nipples tighten—well, tighten _more_ , and she rolls her hips against Enjolras’s thigh, shivering blissfully. “Mmm, you’re always so gorgeous after you come. Harder?”

“Harder,” Enjolras agrees, and then: “God, Grantaire, let me—don’t stop, but, come here.”

She leans down, effortlessly flexible, and mouths at the new bruise on Grantaire’s collar, then down to her much less impressive breasts. Small, asymmetrical, large nipples, nowhere near the parabolic magnificence of her girlfriend’s, but Grantaire has been assured, vehemently and repeatedly, that Enjolras adores her breasts. And in fairness, she does seem to, is always teasing them and teasing Grantaire about their sensitivity, has made Grantaire come with that alone.

“You don’t have to—” she tries to get out, then groans when Enjolras bites down and glares, almost growling.

It’s hard to keep a rhythm at this new angle, especially with Enjolras mouthing at her, delicate little flicks of tongue to nipple that match the shallow thrust of Grantaire’s fingers. Grantaire shivers and does her best to keep her pace steady, crooking her fingers and panting into Enjolras’s skin. It’s so much already, she’s easy but not _that_ easy, probably, just—this is a lot, this whole night has been so much, it feels like she’s been on the edge of coming again this whole time.

“Ahhhh, fuck, goddammit, just a little more teeth – just like that, shit, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, you’re— _oh_.”

“ _You’re_ perfect,” Enjolras says, and rolls her hips, fucking down bit by bit on Grantaire’s stilled fingers, waiting in her characteristically impatient way for Grantaire to remember how to be in control of her body again.

“No, you,” Grantaire argues, fuzzy but certain of her argument. “You didn’t have to do that, I was _busy_ —”

“I wanted to,” Enjolras says, eyes glinting. “I had to, you’re so—I want to see you come, I always want to, you’re so _hot_.”

“I know the feeling,” Grantaire says, feeling full and shaky, a cup about to spill gushy feelings and emotions everywhere in the midst of their hot kinky sex.

“Oh,” Enjolras says softly, and curls her long, lithe body around Grantaire for a kiss, light and sweet despite the fact that Grantaire has four fucking fingers pushing inside her. She lays back down when Grantaire gives her a gentle push, shaking off the rosy, dopey haze of her orgasm and trying to focus.

“Okay. Okay, back to the task at hand,” Grantaire says, waggling her eyebrows, and grins when Enjolras groans and swats at her. “I’m making the duck now, ready?” she asks. When Enjolras nods, she slides four fingers in, and then adds just the very tip of her thumb, gently pushing.

“Ohhhhhh,” Enjolras says, eyes getting huge as her back arches. “That’s— _fuck_ , that's a lot. Don't _stop_."

“It’ll be the letter E,” Grantaire realizes, staring down at the impossibility of the junction between them.

“What?” Enjolras pants, understandably distracted. For all her fuss over the pillows, she’s staring up at the ceiling now, head thrown back and beautiful throat bared, gulping in air.

“Much more poetic and romantic than a _duck puppet_. American sign language, the letter E, that’s the shape my hand will make when it folds, I just realized. Enjolras, god, look at you.” She’s so, so pink, and so wet that everything’s slick, her thighs and her belly and Grantaire’s fingers and palm and wrist.

She goes so slowly now, reverent, until they’re at the widest point of her hand and going further. Enjolras is a vision above her, now. Her trembling stillness has turned Maenad-wild, all dark eyes and tangled hair and open mouth. She’s shaking her head, sucking in audible gasps of air and panting them out raw and desperate.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she says, trembling. “ _Please_ , R, I—”

“You can,” Grantaire croons, and she’s shaking almost as badly as Enjolras is. She feels like a thunderstorm made flesh, all crash and sizzle, like an earthquake’s setting off deep within her skin. She bends her head to nuzzle adoringly at Enjolras’s thigh, to lap at the swollen wetness where her knuckles are breaching Enjolras, and Enjolras makes a wild noise as they slide further in. She’s never seen Enjolras like this, never knew Enjolras could be like this, and it’s so much like being drunk. It’s heady, dizzying. “Oh, you can.”

“Your hands,” Enjolras says thickly, and when Grantaire looks up she’s staring down at her with the sort of face you see on painted saints, on dying martyrs. Tears are leaking out, turning her lashes dark. She’s impossibly beautiful, and Grantaire feels like a god and church-goer, all at once. “I want it, please, I want it, I can’t.”

“You are, you will,” Grantaire promises, awed. “You’re doing so good, you’re being so good for me. Look at you, look at you take it.” Enjolras makes a raw sound, almost a shriek, shaking her head again, and clenches her fists again and again in the tangled sheets, and inside she’s molten hot, liquid and pulsing.

“Relax, oh, breathe for me, beautiful,” Grantaire tells her, and she does ragged and shaking, and then Jesus, Jesus fucking wept, with a low scream and her face screwed up and gorgeously ugly with it, Enjolras lets her in. Grantaire's fingers fold, automatic and easy, fucking the shape of a silent E into Enjolras's beautiful body.

“Oh god,” Grantaire says, so turned on she’s almost as wet as Enjolras is now, the bedsheets slick beneath her. “God, I love you.”

Enjolras is shivering, full-body shudders that remind Grantaire of struck bells, of plucked chords, and her eyes look almost blind, all pupil and white and thin rim of blue. She’s clamped down on Grantaire’s wrist, each breath she’s dragging in sounds like a sob, and Grantaire has never in her entire life felt anything like this. This awed, or this trusted, like Enjolras has tipped something infinitely precious and infinitely fragile into the palm of her hand.

“Enjolras,” she thickly, and carefully lays her cheek on a quivering thigh, eyes darting between the impossible hotness of her _hand_ inside _Enjolras_ , and the obscene slackness of Enjolras’s beautiful face, the toss of her head back and forth as she keens. “You’re beautiful, you’re so beautiful, my gorgeous girl, do you like it? Is it okay? Is it too much? Talk to me.”

Eyelids flutter and her hips shift slightly, and she _moans_ , loud enough that they might hear her upstairs, louder even than Grantaire has ever been.

“R,” she says. “It’s so much.”

“I know, oh, you’re doing so well, I can’t believe it, I can’t believe how amazing you are. Is it good? Does it feel good, baby?”

“More,” is all she says, closing her eyes and doing a slow, slow roll of her hips, Jesus fucking Christ, and then she flings an arm over her face and _screams_. And yes, that’s all she wrote, Grantaire is definitely coming right now, a small but sincere orgasm, untouched, her hand wrist deep in her gorgeous, sweating, writhing girlfriend.

Enjolras raises her arm, and gives her a wobbly smug smile as Grantaire pants against her thigh. “You like it too,” she slurs, cat that got the Baileys liquor and is completely drunk off its tail on it. Then she shakes, eyes flying wide open when Grantaire slowly, carefully turns her hand and flexes her fingers. “Oh god, oh fuck, oh, _more_ , I want another, give me another one,” and Grantaire’s laughing helplessly, almost as breathless as Enjolras is.

“Another hand, you loon?” she teases, and laughs harder, delighted and ridiculous with it, as Enjolras tries to glare at her, but can’t, her eyes rolling back in her head as she moans, loud and low in her throat.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” she begs, and so Grantaire does, carefully and slowly, thrusting shallowly in and out, watching Enjolras fall apart in ways she’d never imagined, ever, let alone thought she’d be honored enough to see. Enjolras has been inarticulate in bed before, but she’s never lost her words entirely like this, going from swearing at Grantaire, to just the letter R, to just groaning syllables, high drawn-out ‘ahs’ and ‘uhs’ that lodge in Grantaire’s chest and burn there. Fuck, god, it’s hot, it’s what porn tries to achieve and _can’t_ , raw and vulnerable and real.

When Enjolras comes after a few minutes of this, it’s almost silently, in a series of waves, full-body. It’s like being in the grip of a gorgeous, terrifying jungle snake, Grantaire legitimately _cannot move her hand_ , and it’s awesome in every sense of the word. She’s awed and a little frightened and a lot adoring and totally, hellaciously smug because this is probably the best thing she’s ever seen, and she's the one making it happen.

She croons and presses kisses everywhere she can reach. “I’ll paint it, somehow,” she hears herself saying. “Capture it, this, the arc and your arches, all raw mess, all gorgeous sound and vulnerability in nebula pinks and gold, oh, look at you.” A low steady ramble of adoration and art, until Enjolras relaxes enough for Grantaire to carefully, slowly begin to slip her hand free.

“No, come back,” Enjolras whines, her eyes closed and body limp, when Grantaire finally slides the last fingertip out. "Don’t go."

"I'm right here, baby, shhh, can’t stay inside forever, but I’m here," Grantaire says, kissing her hip, and feels an indescribable tenderness when Enjolras squirms and sighs, settling. "How are you feeling?"

“Mmm. Amazing," she murmurs, slowly opening her eyes and blinking up at Grantaire. She looks washed clean, like she’s been standing in a torrent of summer rain, drenched and dazed in it. "I feel... amazing. You’re amazing.”

“No, nope, that’s totally you,” Grantaire says gently, and keeping a close eye on Enjolras’s face, indulges herself in running a gentle finger over her swollen labia, red and ripe as some impossible fruit. She loves to touch and kiss and lick right after Enjolras comes, to roll around in the evidence of it, but she knows sometimes it’s too much.

“Ohh,” Enjolras sighs. “Your mouth, please?”

“‘Please’, she says, like it’s not me who should be begging _you_ ,” Grantaire replies, and bends to taste her, and moans despite herself. She’s just so wet, and _hot_ , and then her shaking hands find Grantaire’s sweaty hair, short nails raking through to the scalp just right, just how she likes.

Enjolras finally pulls Grantaire’s head away, shivering, then tugs on her hair.

“Up, come here,” she commands hoarsely, and pulls Grantaire up the bed, big spooning her with her chin tucked over Grantaire’s shoulder. “Use your hand,” her voice rough and trembling, like each heartbeat is still shaking her from within. “Get yourself off for me, I want to see.”

“I live but to serve,” Grantaire says hoarsely, and her hand is still wet, so wet it’s basically pruned, and it’s impossible not to press into the sweaty curve of Enjolras’s body, throw her head back and shiver herself apart remembering what it felt like to be so deep inside her.

“You did, you liked it too,” Enjolras is saying wonderingly, while Grantaire shakes. Her hand finds Grantaire’s and her slim delicate fingers wrap around hers. And her voice is usually so clear and precise, that the syrup slow sweetness of it now, all rounded syllables and slur, is like an aural drug, intoxication for the ear. “I’m glad. Mm, do it harder. Come for me, you were so good to me, I want to be good to you.”

“Did you not see me come like three times already?” Grantaire gasps, and Enjolras scoffs into her shoulder.

“That’s nothing. Come on. Do another, for me.”

“Tyrant,” Grantaire gasps, and there’s something about this, about Enjolras using her own hand to do this, moving her body effortlessly and ruthlessly, that is making her fucking _crazy_. She’s raw and oversensitive already, and it’s so much, and she can’t stop seeing Enjolras, thinking of her face.

“Egalitarian,” Enjolras corrects in a low purr, and hums contentedly when Grantaire comes with a hoarse shout in her arms.

“Water,” Grantaire rasps when she’s finished basking and cuddling and is ready to think again. “You need some. Dehydration bad. Hold on.”

“I could get it myself,” Enjolras grumbles, stretching, but Grantaire has her doubts—Enjolras is generally as useless as a sleepy kitten after an orgasm, good for nothing but purring and cuddling, and Grantaire is frankly blown away that she’s not already fallen asleep.

“Stay,” she orders, and smiles at the indignant little sound Enjolras makes. She pads naked into the dark kitchen, savoring the soreness in all her core muscles, the deep good ache that comes from coming hard, and long, and repeatedly. She chugs a glass of water herself, because lord knows she’s sweated out at least that much, then brings two more back to the bedroom, where Enjolras is laying spread-out and debauched. She’s idly playing with a nipple, and she slowly opens her eyes and smiles up at Grantaire when she comes in.

“God, what a picture,” Grantaire says reverently, and forgets to move for a moment, content to stare and babble idly. “If I could I’d cut you out in little stars, make the finest constellation in heaven, or oh, god, make a stained glass window. This, you, in light and glass. What a church that’d be. I’d drop to my knees every day and twice on Sunday.” There's something there, a painting, a collage or mosaic waiting to unfold beneath her fingers, and if the bed and its sweaty inhabitant didn't look quite so inviting, she'd go to the studio now and coax it out.

Instead she nearly drops both glasses when Enjolras says, almost casually, “I love you too, you know.” Her voice is nearly normal, again, just a little slow and sweet, sleepy. She reaches out a hand and Grantaire automatically hands her the water, the condensation cool on her fingertips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome?” That was a squeak, Grantaire has had her fist in this woman and now she’s just squeaked at her. She feels dizzy.

“I mean, I assumed... I know it was mid-coitus, but I—thought. Did you mean it?” Enjolras’s voice, so rarely uncertain, cuts through Grantaire like a knife when it lilts up at the end. She doesn't entirely remember saying it out loud, but she's sure she did, isn't sure how she's held it in so long anyway, and now she explodes.

“Did I _mean_ it?" she splutters, then jabs forward with a furious finger. "You—I love you so much I can hardly _stand_ it. I’m worse than Marie, I’m—I wax rhapsodic over your stupid unwashed coffee mugs. I love you shouting and getting arrested and your face when it’s furious, god, I love you. I love you, I would rather have your wet towels on my bathroom floor than all the art of the Louvre on my walls. I could paint the freckles on your back by heart. Did I _mean_ it. I've never meant anything else, of course I _mean_ it, fuck.”

Grantaire manages to stop herself, and makes herself take a shaky swallow of water.

“You don’t love the towels,” Enjolras says after a long moment, and when Grantaire makes herself look over, her eyes are shining. She’s smiling, small and a little silly. “You liar.”

“Is it so hard to pick them up,” Grantaire says automatically, a well-worn fond refrain that falls easily from her lips. She isn’t entirely sure what to do with her body.

“I love you, too,” Enjolras says easily. “I wanted to be sure before I said it, and I am. I’m sure.”

“Don’t say it just because of the fabulous sex,” Grantaire warns, her eyes prickling, and she sits down on the bed, dragging a pillow in her lap and hiding her face behind her glass again.

It’s impossible that Enjolras, her Athena with the body and face of a Venus, her righteous goddess, a silver-tongued golden-haired warrior made mortal flesh, could love _Grantaire_ , a collection of broken bottles given human form. Stained, jagged, discordant. Something to rut against, to fight, but not to keep.

Except Enjolras has kissed her sweaty and bleeding mouth, has followed Grantaire trembling and awkwardly contrite after a screaming fight, has picked up the pieces after a bender, heedless of cutting herself. Has come apart on Grantaire's fingers, placed herself awkwardly and hopefully in Grantaire's hands.

And Grantaire knows Enjolras has her own edges, too: her thoughtless unkindnesses, her harsh focus, her upturned nose and her infuriating bouts of accidental snobbery. Her streak of stubborn, selfish martyrdom. Her terrible domestic habits, the towels of which are less concerning than the terrifying mad science experiments of abandoned soup mugs and half-eaten sandwiches buried beneath newspapers and journal articles.

And Grantaire loves her.

“I love you,” Enjolras repeats, and then lays her head on the pillow in Grantaire’s lap. She yawns, and Grantaire knows that face, the face she makes just before she collapses into her laptop screen, or falls asleep mid-sentence. A sleepy toddler face, desperately clinging to consciousness before being dragged under by Nod. “I’ll, mm. I’ll make you a list, too, in the morning. Of the things I love, about you. It’s long.”

“Again with the equality kink,” Grantaire chokes out, carding her fingers through Enjolras’s sweaty, tangled hair. In the morning it will snarl, and Enjolras will sulk and do battle with it and threaten to cut it all off until Grantaire snaps and combs it herself. “Get actually in the bed, babe, you can’t sleep like this.”

“Come with,” Enjolras says agreeably, stretching out and taking her hands, pulling Grantaire to her and rolling them around until the soaked blanket is kicked off the bed and the sheets are vaguely on top of them.

“First on the list,” Enjolras says around another yawn, tugging Grantaire’s arms around her and lacing their fingers together. “Your hands. So good. So good to me, you’re so good with them. I love your hands.”

Grantaire stares down at them, her fingers dark and calloused, rough against Enjolras’s dainty skin, then pulls Enjolras closer, closing her eyes and inhaling the smell of sex and sweat and their laundry detergent.

“Yeah," she breathes out finally, and smiles into Enjolras's hair. "Yeah, they're pretty great.”


End file.
